A Pin's Fee
by stcrmpilot
Summary: There were two options, the way she saw it: either he was pretending to have forgotten that he'd very nearly gotten killed not an hour before—which meant he thought she was a bloody idiot—or he really wasn't bothered about it. Which was worse.


A/N: So. I've had this half-finished for a long time, and I put it aside for a while because it abruptly became very personal to me. I write a lot of stuff like this and I don't often comment on it but I never, ever want to make light of it, and if you struggle with this stuff I would encourage you to reach out, whatever that looks like. As the Doctor says in the very next episode, there's always something to live for.

* * *

The Doctor was in as good a mood as ever when he and Donna got back to the TARDIS, bouncing around the console like they hadn't just blown up an entire army of Sontarans. Now, usually she would have found that comforting; his cheery and slightly manic demeanour was a welcome break from the rougher parts of travelling with him. Right now, it was just infuriating.

Donna knew she wasn't really angry at him. She was scared. She hadn't yet gotten over the shock and horror of that final confrontation. But no matter how many times she told herself, watching him prance about, chattering and gesturing enthusiastically, her ire only continued to rise. Because there were two options, the way she saw it: either he was pretending to have forgotten that he'd very nearly gotten killed not an hour before—which meant he thought she was a bloody idiot—or he really wasn't bothered about it. Which was worse.

"…rather complex, I'm afraid," he was rambling, fiddling with a bank of controls while he watched the viewscreen. "Should only take a couple hours to analyze all those nasty little compounds, though, then UNIT can wrap this up and we can be off at last."

"Great," she said drily, wandering around the outside of the room and attempting to stay out of his way.

If the Doctor noticed her lack of enthusiasm, he didn't show it. "Really is quite remarkable, you know, what the Sontarans have managed to do with their knowledge of genetics. Unfortunate that it all went towards the whole 'conquering' thing, but…"

Donna made an indistinct noise of agreement, fiddling with a loose thread on one of the jumpseats. She wasn't really listening; she was thinking about all the other things he could have tried before sending himself up there. She didn't know exactly how all that technology worked, she didn't know the Sontarans like he did, but she sure as hell knew that they were never going to accept his offer of surrender. And if he knew them better than she, then she was forced to assume that he, too, had known the gesture would be futile.

He'd known he would be forced to use the device. He hadn't known the kid would save him. He'd stepped into that transporter fully expecting to die, and he wanted her to just forget about it?

The traitorous thought wormed its way into the back of her mind: _What would I do without him?_

Suddenly her eyes were filling with tears, hot and stinging. She bit her lip to stop it trembling and tried to swallow around the lump in her throat, desperate not to break down in front of him. If she cried then she would have to explain herself, and she would have to ask him, and she really really didn't want to hear what he would say–

"…I mean, it's brilliant in concept, but–" The Doctor stopped in the middle of his spiel, narrowing his eyes at her. "Are you… alright?"

The question only drove her closer to dissolving in tears, and a fresh wave of pain and anger hit her like a blow. "Of course I'm not bloody alright!" she snapped, hating the way her voice wavered. "Why the hell would I be alright?"

The Doctor, startled by her outburst, took an awkward step closer. "Well, er… what's the matter?"

She stared at him. "God you really don't care, do you?" she whispered. "You didn't even notice."

"Donna, I– I'm sorry, I don't understand." He looked genuinely confused, his eyes wide and worried, and she let out a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob.

"You almost _died_ , Doctor," she said, slowly and forcefully, to get it through his thick skull. "Do you not get that? You would've been _gone_. For good. And you're just– just rambling on and doing your stupid scans like it didn't even happen!"

The Doctor's gaze softened in a maddening display of sympathy, and he tentatively reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really am, but– well, you know I couldn't just let them have the Earth. My life for a few billion, that's not so bad. What was I to do?"

Donna sniffled, wiped furiously at her eyes and shook her head. "You didn't have to do that," she said. "You knew they wouldn't surrender."

"I had to give them the chance," he said.

"But you knew!"

He withdrew, then, his expression shuttering as he returned to whatever he'd been doing at the console. "I had to try it," he muttered.

Normally, Donna would have taken this as her cue to leave it alone, but she wasn't in the mood to humour him. "Why, so you wouldn't feel guilty?"

The Doctor tightened his grip on the edge of the console until his knuckles turned white. "Stop it," he said quietly.

"So you wouldn't have to be around after? Hm?"

"Stop."

"What, do you _want_ to die?"

He ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he leaned forwards against the console—the first hint of genuine emotion she'd seen from him since he'd come back from the Sontaran ship. She watched his back rise and fall with harsh, halting breaths, watched a flush colour his cheeks and a muscle in his jaw twitch with restrained tension; it hit her all of a sudden that she'd gone too far. The anger drained from under her heated skin, and cold dread seeped in to replace it. He still hadn't moved.

Cautious, Donna took a step closer to him. "Doctor?" she inquired. "I'm–"

The Doctor rounded on her, fury flashing in his eyes, cutting her off. "What do you want me to say, Donna?" he snarled. "You think I should just be fine with a bit more blood on my hands? One more species on my conscience? Oh, what's a few thousand deaths to me, right?" At her bewildered silence, he pressed on. "You really think I'd rather live than save a planet? Hm? Than watch you, all of you, die in front of me, than– than hurt your bloody _feelings?_ Well, I wouldn't." He hesitated, trembling visibly with anger, then swept back over to the console and began flipping switches with unnecessary force. "I've tried it," he muttered. "No more."

She went quiet for a long moment, struggling for a response. She tried not to feel hurt by his implications—she knew he hadn't meant to insult. And… well, he was sort of right, wasn't he? It was selfish of her to value his life over so many others.

But that wasn't what she'd asked; he hadn't answered her question. And now that he was finished with his outburst he just looked tired—the sort of tired that didn't always go away with a bit of rest, the sort of tired you only saw in someone who'd seen too much. She realized she felt just as afraid and alone as she had when he'd gone up to the ship, thinking she'd never get him back again. Tears sprung to her eyes once more.

"Well… fine!" she shouted, ignoring the crack in her voice. "If you want to bloody kill yourself, I won't stop you!"

She barely had time to register the look of shock and hurt on his face before she spun on her heel and stormed out of the console room, hoping he wouldn't notice that her shoulders had started to shake.

For a while she just sat on the couch in the lounge, unsure of exactly why she was upset. Or perhaps quite sure, and simply unwilling to admit it—she didn't give it enough thought to find out, in between bouts of sobbing. It didn't take long at all for her to regret what she'd told him, and only a bit longer to regret leaving him. She knew how he got when he felt abandoned, and alone, and… well, he still hadn't answered her. Not that she'd really expected him to, but she worried nonetheless. In the time she'd been sitting there her mind had helpfully supplied her with every similar incident she could recall—under the Thames, on the Ood Sphere, that time with the Daleks that Martha had mentioned, somewhere in the chaos of their trip—and though she was loath to acknowledge it, she thought she already knew the answer.

It terrified her.

She'd only just made the decision to go find the Doctor when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see him standing in the doorway, leaning against the wall, his mouth set in a tense line but his eyes wide and nervous.

Donna sniffled, quickly attempting to dry her cheeks with her sleeve. "How long've you been there?" she asked hoarsely.

The Doctor looked down, scuffled his feet on the floor. "Not long," he said. "Can I…?"

He never finished, but gave a slight nod, and she presumed he wanted to come in. She nodded stiffly, knowing she must look a mess, and turned to face the telly, though the screen was dark. He practically tiptoed in, barely making a sound, and sat on the couch as far away from her as possible. He crossed his legs, and began tapping his fingers against the armrest.

"Stop that," muttered Donna, the repetitive sound only serving to annoy her further.

The Doctor hesitated, then crossed his arms over his stomach to tap on his arms instead. He glanced over.

"You alright?" he asked quietly.

She barked out a laugh. "Yeah. 'M always alright."

The briefest of pained looks crossed his face, quickly masked. "Right."

There was a long, uncomfortable period of silence then, and Donna wondered why he'd even bothered coming at all. Finally, when he still showed no intention of speaking up, she took a deep breath.

"I'm–"

"I don't–"

They spoke at once. The Doctor nodded for her to go ahead.

"I'm, er… I'm sorry," Donna mumbled. "I didn't mean to upset you, I was just–"

"Yep." He sniffed awkwardly. "'S fine."

She watched him out of the corner of her eye, waiting for him to continue, but he just kept staring at the blank telly. Worry and guilt gnawed at her right along with the impatience—what if he was really mad? What if he wanted her to go home?

"I really am sorry," she blurted out, swallowing her pride. "I shouldn't have shouted, and– God, I didn't mean it, I swear, you were right–"

He laughed—a quiet, mirthless sound—and ran a hand through his hair. "No," he murmured, "no, I wasn't." He stretched out a bit, lounging with his arm over the back of the sofa, turning himself to face her for the first time. "I'm the one who should apologize."

Donna hesitated, unsure of his sincerity, then nodded. "You were a bit of an arse."

He offered a brief smile, before his gaze fell to his lap. "Never meant to scare you," he said quietly. "But–" He sighed. "You would've gone on without me. Yeah? You would've been alright. You've got your family, your friends… your planet. Stars, you'd probably be better off, without all the running and– and the almost dying. You don't need me."

She was shaking her head before he even finished, horror-struck by his words. "Don't you dare say that," she scolded. She found herself startled by the strength of her own vehemence. "God, how could you even _think_ that?"

"Donna–"

"That's a bloody awful thing to say. You really think I don't need you?"

The Doctor stared at her for a long moment, mouth agape, a "You don't" practically visible on his lips.

"I just–" Donna swept her hair out of her face and ducked her head, avoiding his gaze to hide the tears gathering in her eyes. "I don't know what to do, Doctor, you– God, you're so bloody reckless sometimes, and I don't understand it. I don't understand why you do that to yourself, why would you do that to yourself?" Her voice was breaking now, her vision blurred and distorted, but she wiped her eyes and continued, for once she'd started she couldn't seem to stop. "You just… _toss_ yourself into danger like you don't even care what happens—and know it's not just to save people so don't you dare try to pull that—and I'm so… _scared_ for you, 'cause I care so bloody much about you and I don't know w– what I would do, if you died. I just d– don't, I–"

She reached desperately for his hand as a sob wracked her body, and he pulled her closer, letting her throw her arms around him and bury her face against his chest. He hugged her tight to him in turn. She could hear him sniffling, feel his chest jump with his broken breaths; the realization that he was crying too helped calm her, remind her that he was listening, no matter how aloof he acted. Taking several deep breaths, she tried to gather her composure, grateful for the weight of his arms around her and his hand gently rubbing her back.

"I don't want to die," breathed the Doctor, out of the blue and so quiet she almost missed it. When it registered, she couldn't help but pull back to look at him, keeping one hand on his shoulder.

"What?" she asked, her voice still trembling.

He pursed his lips, the embarrassed blush on his cheeks visible even in the dim light. "I don't," he said. "Not… not really. Not anymore."

Donna knew she should've been relieved, but she wasn't. She wasn't sure she believed him. "Then… why?"

The Doctor took a deep, shuddering breath, and cast his gaze around the room, looking for something to grab his attention. "'Cause I–" His voice caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, composing himself for a long moment, before he finally, hesitantly, met her eyes.

"I'm tired," he whispered. "Donna, I'm so tired. I like to travel, I do, and I like our adventures and I– I like to fix things. It's worth it, honest, it is, but there are some times…" He sniffed, brushing tears from his cheeks. "I just forget. All the panic, the shouting, the ships and the missiles and– and the guns… the dying…" His voice had grown hoarse with emotion, his gaze distant. His hand trembled where it rested on her arm, and she squeezed his shoulder without thinking. He inhaled shakily, refocusing on her.

"I forget that I'm not back there, fighting. That–" he laughed, rather humourlessly– "that I've got anything left. Anything worth living for. I'm so tired of forgetting, Donna, and reminding myself again, I just… want it to stop. All of it. And, well…" He glanced downwards, his voice dropping to near a whisper. "It'd be easy. Just to die. No more fighting then." He sniffled. "Pretty tired of that, too."

Though the way he was talking—the cold, angry look on his face, the exhaustion in his eyes—scared her, Donna offered a tentative smile. "No more adventures then either," she said. "Right?"

The Doctor studied her for a moment, then broke into a wide, warm smile. "Right," he murmured. Then he shrugged. "No more you as well. No more Martha, no more TARDIS. Can't miss out on that, now can I?"

She shook her head vehemently, and he chuckled.

"But…" She hesitated. "You nearly did. You're always doing it, trying to give yourself up. Every other week, it seems… anything you get a bit too invested in."

A fresh smile quirked at the corner of his lips. "I do not set my life at a pin's fee," he murmured.

Donna didn't quite share his sense of humour about it, and wasn't sure she understood the reference, though she was glad to see him in a lighter mood.

Noting this, he nodded and bit his lip, his expression turning downcast. "Guess I've got a bit more practice to do," he muttered. "At remembering. Appreciating."

"And, um, what about–" She winced, hoping he wouldn't get mad. "What if you… did it yourself?"

The Doctor cocked his head, confused, before it hit him. She watched him recoil, ever so slightly, and on instinct he opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. He shut his mouth, and sighed.

"Please, Donna, don't worry about me," he said quietly. "Not about that. I would… I would never, you know that."

"Do I?" she questioned, just a bit sharper than intended.

He gave her a long, softly resigned look that showed every one of his nine hundred years. "I made that decision a long time ago," he murmured. "Haven't backed out yet."

She watched him for a moment, studying his face for any hint of insincerity. It was a huge relief to find none, the worry and dread lifting from her shoulders as she realized she trusted his judgement. This time.

"Alright, then," Donna said, nodding. "I'm–" Reaching out to place her other hand on his shoulder as well, she looked him in the eye. "I'm proud of you," she told him earnestly. "God, I'm so bloody proud."

The Doctor blinked, shock turning his expression blank. Then he smiled, sheepish and reserved but clearly genuine.

"I am always here for you, Spaceman," she promised. "Always. Okay? You ever need a reminder, for– for any of it, I've got your back."

He nodded, sniffling. "'Kay," he said, the gratitude audible in his voice.

"Okay." Opening her arms, Donna pulled him into a tight hug; he nestled his head against her shoulder, his hands grasping at the back of her jacket.

"Please try not to die," she whispered. "I… I'd miss you. So much."

"I'll do my best," mumbled the Doctor. "Promise."

When she let him go, a good while later, he was smiling fondly.

"I lied, you know," he said, a casual drawl, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Back in the console room."

Donna raised an eyebrow.

"I'd stick around, if it meant sparing your feelings."

As his words sank in, an identical expression of fondness spread over her face. She leaned over to nudge him with her shoulder, unable to keep a smile from her lips.

"Right back at you, Spaceman."


End file.
